Show Them Our Hearts
by lavellanpls
Summary: "...and then show them theirs." Solas underestimates Lavellan's strength in battle. She aims to make sure he doesn't forget again. (Alternatively titled: "the one where Solas gets his ass handed to him")


The first time Solas sees her fight, they're in the mountains. He and Varric are trying to hold back the demons spilling from the rift above them, desperately awaiting reinforcements, and suddenly a screaming elven girl smashes through a throng of shades and beheads a demon in front of him.

He knows who she is, inasmuch as he knows she is the recipient of a terrible and accidental gift. This is, however, the first time he's seen her awake.

A Dalish warrior with amber eyes and fingers curled into fists. Too small for the stolen sword strapped to her back. She must have been a hunter, back in her clan. Skilled enough at taking down animals, he's sure, but she's young, and it shows in her technique. She fights like a cornered animal, all bared teeth and blind fury, and perhaps that works well enough for now, but Solas notes each apparent weakness with a frown. There is no grace to her attacks. Only rage—raw and powerful and unrefined. Savage. She cuts down a demon with a furious cry, and Solas sees the gaps in every unguarded lunge and slash.

Another warrior fueled by fury. He can't pin down a style, exactly—a touch berserker, a touch reaver, a touch pure and feral _wrath_ —but he sees enough, and is…disappointed, perhaps. The mark on her hand bestowed her with such great, unmatched _power,_ Solas had _hoped_ …well. He'd hoped for a great many things. Lavellan is a respectable warrior, and he truly does commend her effort, but he's seen the fall of many warriors. He can see her fall already.

He hopes very much to be wrong. Rarely does that ever happen.

Varric introduces himself after she closes the rift. "Varric Tethras," he greets. "Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong."

She wipes blood from a fresh gash in her cheek and smiles. "Lilith Lavellan," she responds with a nod. "Warrior, amnesiac, and apparently a really big deal."

They're wandering the Hinterlands when he sees her fight again. Defending refugees near the Crossroads, where the mage-templar war still rages. She spins with her great sword outstretched, a whirl of blood and steel, and he marvels at the sheer _viciousness_ with which she fights. For all her rage, Lavellan is still young, inexperienced; Solas cannot help but wonder if she's ever had to kill a man before. If, for all her swagger, she's ever actually taken a human life.

He stops wondering when she eviscerates an attacking Templar without missing her step.

She strikes with ferocity, but no finesse. By the time that battle is over Lavellan is soaked in blood—only half of which, Solas notes, belongs to her enemies. The observation does little to comfort him. She turns to flash her companions a triumphant thumbs up, and there's a wet spray of blood across half her face.

"I call that last move 'blood tornado,'" she informs. "I think it's my new favorite."

Indeed.

He mentions it to her one day. She's testing a new battleaxe in the training yard, far removed from Cullen and his soldiers, and he stops to watch. If only a moment. Lavellan attacks like a pouncing tiger; swings and rips into a training dummy with a furious slash of her blade, and by the way she snarls he'd think the thing personally killed her family. It's a stark brutality he finds both startling and impressive, for as quickly as it comes it's gone again. She spots him looking her way, and like a flash of lightning the tiger disappears. The head of her axe hits the ground with a heavy thud, and she smiles. A wide and eager grin. "Check it out," she calls, motioning him over. "Look what Harritt made me!"

"An axe," he notes. Nearly as long as she is tall. A preposterously oversized weapon for someone so small. "It's…big."

"All the better to hit with." She hefts her new weapon to her shoulder with a gleaming grin. "And I don't know if you've noticed, but I am getting _very_ good at hitting."

Solas will not argue that. But… "Your fighting style is unique," he quips. "I notice you neglect defense in favor of unrelenting offense. An effective technique in short bursts, perhaps, but not an ideal tactic for prolonged combat. Have you considered applying more strategy to your attacks?"

"I have a strategy," she says, but does not sound defensive. If anything she sounds _amused_. "I make 'em hurt."

"And you think that sufficient?"

"You don't?"

He laughs, despite himself. "You fight angry," he states. "Anger is a powerful motivator, but too often can cloud the judgement and leave you blinded. A fatal mistake, in battle."

"Maybe that's part of my strategy," she suggests. "A little chaos can lend an advantage. Keeps my enemies guessing."

"Chaos is not a strategy."

"It is if you're good at it."

"There is no skill to blind fury," he argues, and Lavellan touches a hand to her chest in her best imitation of play offense.

"And who said my fury was blind?"

Solas concedes with a repentant nod. "I apologize if I've offended. I meant only to offer advice."

"No, no, I appreciate it." She looks up at him with shining eyes and an eager smile. "Maybe you could help me practice some time. If you're up for it."

And oh, that is a _terrible_ idea. "Practice?"

"If you're up for it," she repeats. "Full disclosure, though: I won't go easy on you."

A terrible, terrible idea.

Of course he agrees. Can't help himself, in the end. "Perhaps you can demonstrate the finer details of this strategy you insist you have."

"To be fair, it's a pretty simple strategy. In the words of a friend—show them your heart, and then show them _theirs_."

"Poetic," he says with the smallest upturn of a smirk. "Any chance this friend is still living?"

"That part's less relevant."

Right, then.

Lavellan arms herself with a wooden training sword, and Solas resolves to rein his magic back to simple disarming spells. He aims only to teach, not to _hurt_ her, and an attack at full power would be…hurtful. To say the least. Lavellan is a respectable warrior, and he'll gladly admit it, but he has seen warriors fall before. He hopes, genuinely, that she will surprise him. Doubts it, but hopes still.

Lilith swings her wooden blade by the hilt, still eager, still smiling. "We playing for points?"

"Ideally for _learning,_ but if you'd prefer."

"Good," she decides. "Points then."

The first round is over entirely too quick.

She charges, and the smile disappears.

Solas catches her in the side with a shot of magic; knocks her off balance long enough to swing back and land an icy blast to the dead center of her chest. Lilith is knocked backed on impact, jaw clenched tight, and he casts a wall of ice that snares her mid-step and sinks her hard to her knees. But she doesn't stay down nearly long enough. She's back up before he can land another spell, sword gripped tight in both hands. She's faster than he originally thought, but no bother.

He aims to knock her back with a controlled veilstrike, but doesn't anticipate how she rolls with the blast, uses the force of the impact to dive into a somersault and then staggers into a charge. He blocks a quick slash of her sword with his staff, tries to throw a barrier up and shove her back, but then she slams the crown of her skull into his forehead and in the split second he takes to recover she sends him sprawling with a flat kick to the solar plexus.

On his knees in the dirt, head spinning, he looks up and is met with the pointed tip of her sword.

"My point," she says.

Solas is big enough to admit he may have underestimated this particular battle. A mistake he does not intend to make again.

"Good," he grants. "But not flawless."

He rises, staff gripped that much tighter. A minor miscalculation. He would be ready for her this time.

The second round ends even quicker than the first. No matter how fast he fires spells, Lavellan is on him too quickly, a whirl of red and white with a war cry that resonates from deep within her chest. A feral _roar_. He can't pin down an attack pattern; can't anticipate her next move in time to deflect it. One second he's got her caught in a static burst and the next he's narrowly avoiding a left hook to the jaw. Solas raises his staff, prepared to strike, but Lavellan strikes quicker with a brutal _thwack_ to his exposed flank.

"Pierced lung," she says. "My point."

He decides to stop holding back this time.

The third round at least lasts longer. This time he manages to dodge her, for the most part, but the spells that do stick don't slow her down fast enough, and all too quickly she's backing him into a corner. He fadesteps out of reach just in time to miss a vicious overhead strike. Lavellan's blade crashes ineffectually into the dirt, and Solas is behind her before she can heave her sword up to strike again. He levels his staff with the back of her skull, triumphant, and thinks for the briefest of moments he's finally _got her_. Then she twists back to latch onto the end of his staff, jerks him forward, catches him by the arm, and with a great, roaring cry hauls him over her shoulder and lays him out flat on his back with a bone-jarring _thud_.

She's on him before the air can return to his lungs. Straddling his hips, palm pressed flat to his aching chest, she levels her sword against his throat while he struggles to catch his breath and _grins_. "Decapitated," she informs. "My point."

On his back, ears still ringing, Solas can only rasp an incredulous " _How?_ "

"Footwork and leverage," she answers, smile slyly widening. "And a better strategy than you."

This has officially stopped being amusing.

The next round he no longer limits his spells. A well-cast stonefist nearly knocks Lavellan to the ground; a second clips her chin and spins her, but her stumble rolls into a sprint and she nearly stuns him with a lunging pommel strike. She attacks as if she means to claw him open. A brutal, unrelenting assault. Solas raises his staff to block the blow; pivots and smashes it into the side of her head with enough force to send her stumbling. If he can just _pin_ her she'll be through; he can freeze her in place and disarm her with an energy barrage, and then-

Before he can land his next hit she drops to her knees, skids forward in the mud and thrusts the sword up into his gut. "Disemboweled," she happily announces. "My point again."

Solas is getting incredibly tired of dying.

The next round he decides he won't.

Lavellan spits a mouthful of blood into the dirt, speckling the snow with crimson. Solas should probably be worried about that. She doesn't give him time to think that far ahead—she pounces, rips into him with startling fury, and for a fraction of an instant Solas actually feels genuine _fear_ , because for an instant he doesn't see Lavellan anymore. He sees something wild; feral, _animal_ -

He hits her full blast with a veilstrike, and isn't proud of the manic surge of _triumph_ he feels when she cries out. The victory is fleeting. He sees her shoulders bunch, head low; prepares for a charge and is caught off guard when she leaps and staggers him with a crippling stab to his knee. He pulls away to dodge a swinging blade and has the wind knocked from him when she feints left and ducks to slam her fist beneath his pectorals. Solas falls on outstretched hands, staff clattering to the ground with him. When he looks up, he does not see Lavellan.

He sees a tiger—wild and feral and unafraid.

Solas doesn't think. He grabs for his staff; swings back and sweeps her legs with enough force to topple her. Lavellan buckles, sword lost, and Solas is a second away from pinning her with his staff blade and announcing, finally, _"my point."_ But Lilith twists wrong when she falls; lands hard on her wrist with a pained gasp and curls in on herself.

The glee recedes in a wave of guilt. Solas drops his staff and offers his hand. "Apologies," he manages, out of breath. "I did not-"

He's cut off by a swift uppercut to the gut.

While Solas crumples, exhaling broken strings of Elven, Lavellan only stands. Bends to retrieve her fallen weapon with a plainly uninjured wrist, and strolls unhurried to where he lays gasping in the dirt. When he looks up, he meets the familiar point of a wooden sword.

"My point." She shifts her weight to her hip and _tsks_. "And with the oldest trick in the book, too. _Shameful_."

And Solas just…laughs.

All he can think to do is laugh.

It has been a very long time since he lost a fight.

"I believe they call that 'fighting dirty,'" he remarks, but can't bring himself to feel bitter about his defeat. Feels, instead, something very…different.

"Hey, if I was fighting dirty I'd have spit blood in your face." She helps him up with the offer of an outstretched hand. "That was playing nice."

From across the yard, the sound of Varric's laughter echoes. "Shit, kid," he marvels. "I should start calling you Killer."

Solas _emphatically_ disapproves.

* * *

When Solas awakes the next morning, it takes him a long and agonizing moment to realize why he _hurts_. The confusion does not last long.

Right. The terrible idea.

That terrible, terrible idea.

He presses a hand to his aching chest, and for a guilty instant too long thinks of Lavellan. Of a wooden sword and wicked grin and the weight of her pressing down against him, eyes narrow amber slits.

 _My point._

It isn't often he finds himself evenly matched. Even less often _overpowered_. He rubs absently at a sore spot on his side and wonders, fleetingly, how they would have fared if they'd actually been trying to kill each other. A worrisome prospect.

Upon closer examination he discovers a suspiciously boot-shaped bruise stamped below his ribs. He almost considers showing Lavellan—surely she'd be proud—but realizes disrobing for the Herald may not be the wisest course of action. Still.

It's been a long while since Solas woke up hurting that much. He has to respect that.

He sees her again that afternoon, excitedly showing off her new axe to Cassandra in the training yard. She demonstrates a furious overhead strike, and the Seeker gives a grudging nod of approval. Lilith's left eye, he notes, is swollen purple. It does nothing to slow her down. Solas watches as he has before—a silent observer—but this time sees something…else. In the gaps between each lunge and slash, coiled beneath a mask of fury, he sees tensed muscles and clear eyes and a careful, savage grace. Something untamed and clever.

The crimson lines of her vallaslin have never looked more like stripes.

Cullen catches his eye from across the way. Nods to him. "Sparring with Lavellan?" he ventures.

Solas gives a mirthless chuckle. _Sparring_ , he says… "Hardly. I think I merely _survived_ her."

But Cullen only laughs. "I know the feeling." With a bitter smirk, he tugs the hem of his shirt up a few inches to reveal an ugly, yellowing bruise spreading below his ribs. "She called that one 'blood tornado,'" he says. "And that was with a wooden sword. I don't even want to imagine what'd happen if we gave her a real one."

Solas does not have to imagine. "She is certainly…" He tries to think of a fitting modifier and settles lamely on " _spirited_."

"Maker, she's a bloody _wolverine_. I'm about to start threatening the men with her when they step out of line."

And Solas has to laugh, because that may actually prove effective. "If only the Breach could be punched into submission."

"At this point I'm not sure I'd rule it out. Stranger things have happened."

With a wince Solas shifts his weight to his good knee—the one left graciously unstabbed—and watches from afar as Lilith saunters off on some new quest.

Yes. Stranger, indeed.


End file.
